Combat
by shedoc
Summary: there are rules - unwritten - to participating in a London brawl. But how would you cope with combat? Early H/W friendship


Disclaimer – not mine.

AN – see bottom notes. Early friendship, not slash, written in one burst. Posted as one chapter because I can't be bothered to make pretty.

**Combat**

The art of a London Brawl - Watson

The details of the case are insignificant. It was entirely without points of interest – it had no merits at all. However the end of the case had some points of interest if only for its effects on my relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Prior to the events I am about to describe Holmes thought of me as something of an innocent when it came to brawling. He was not wrong. It seemed that London had its own unique rules when it came to brawling, rules that I at first did not understand. There were unwritten rules about what punches could be thrown, what implements used, even what number of opponents could work against each other. In our very first brawl I was quite badly knocked about, resulting in Holmes vowing never to take me to the lower regions of London again. We got past that … with some difficulty. It took me some time to discern the rules for myself, but once I had my participation in the brawls that sometimes occurred in the course of Holmes' work were no longer a bone of contention between us.

This particular case changed that. We had been accompanied by three Constables to assist in the arrest at the end of the case, but had been separated in the warehouse that doubled as a bar and illegal fighting ring. As I worked my way around the edge of the second floor to get a better view of the proceedings below I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that Holmes and the three constables had been spotted. I attempted to go their aid, but was captured myself. As I struggled to free myself words were exchanged with our captors and I found myself placed on the docket as the next item.

"… and since you're so heated over the matter, doctor, we'll make things interesting," the leader of the gang that we had been stalking announced, "We'll have one opponent for each of your friends here… one for Mr 'Olmes and one for each of the constables. Four in all… that should be interesting, now don't you think it will?"

Holmes threw himself against the ropes restraining him, but I could only nod in acceptance. I draped my coat over his shoulders and hoped that the gang would leave him alone long enough to use the tools concealed in the pockets – at the very least the scalpel that I carried in my pocket would sever the cords that bound him.

It was true that I had no knowledge of how to brawl according to the rules of London. But I knew combat. I knew the rules of fighting for your life, and that was what I was now facing. It may not have had anything to do with the rules followed by the rogues of London, but it would stand me in good stead now.

I'm sure that the fighting pen had never seen a man dressed as I was thrust into it; gentlemen generally as a rule didn't stumble into illegal fight rings. My slight limp and stiff shoulder were easily discernable to any man that had any experience sizing up an opponent. There was no shortage of 'volunteers' to take me on, but I paid no mind to that.

The roar of men out for my blood was deafening for a moment and then a swirl of movement upstairs caught my eye – one of the constables struggling hard against his ropes. I let my eyes turn towards Holmes and the sound of it all went away. I had a moment of familiar singing clarity and the noise all went away and then the first man moved towards me.

London brawling dictated that two on one was permissible without intervention – three on one was something to watch for, four on one not allowed no matter who was involved. The rules of combat said differently. Combat said you fought until the enemy overran you or you prevailed. There was nothing barred, nothing forbidden, no lengths that were off limits. The men in the pen reaching for me were expecting to participate in a London brawl.

I showed them combat.

At one point the number of men in the pen increased to eight, then ten. I hit the edge of the pen and found a weapon in my hands. Movement was becoming painful and there were low obstructions underfoot but the hands reaching for me did not decrease for many more minutes. Finally there were only three in the pen, then one, then peace.

The men outside my sphere of combat surged uneasily but made no effort to come within my range. There was a noise, a tidal wave of blue and finally allies. A moan at my feet awoke old instincts and I went looking for injuries. One man in particular was my target; I met him at the bottom of the stairs.

His mouth was moving rapidly but I had yet to regain more than the most basic of my senses. Once I had assured myself that he was uninjured I looked for others among our allies, then the enemy. Time telescoped in the way that it did when any man operated in the grip of his instincts. My next clear thought came as Holmes wrapped my coat across my shoulders.

I woke in Baker Street two days later, rather stiff, contused, bruised and very relieved that the next brawl I participated in would be more along the lines of a mannerly London brawl.

0o0o0o0

The art of unarmed combat - Holmes

I cannot deny that I had treated my dear friend Watson as something of a cripple at first. It was not intentional, nor meant to be denigrating, but the things that I knew for a fact, the rules and laws that governed life in London were something that Watson had no knowledge of when we first met. He was slow to accumulate that knowledge, not that it was entirely his fault. Once he became actively involved in my work it was a matter of the first moment that he acquire an understanding of the rules and bylaws of London – the unwritten criminal and civilian code that governed the behaviour of the men and women that we encountered in the course of our investigations.

He had no trouble earning the respect of those that he met when in his own persona. The dignity that he wore as a cloak was extended to all no matter their class or condition. He treated their ailments with compassion, ignored the squalor they lived in and smiled at their children with ease.

He knew nothing of fighting. Odd for a soldier and former athlete, but I supposed that his time as a soldier had been spent as a non combatant. The injuries he was still recovering from had turned his athletic frame into something unfamiliar to him – old patterns of fighting would no longer be possible with a weak arm and lamed leg. It seemed to me that he would need some time to relearn how to fight with such encumbrances, thus my treating him as something of a cripple. It was not condescension on my part, simply a form of concern.

The case that proved me wrong had no points of interest at all. After much argument for the use of official back up on Watson's part and a threat to wire Lestrade we were accompanied by three constables as we attempted to bring our fifth case after Jefferson Hope to a close. We were separated from each other at the last and a careless noise from one of the Constables saw all of us captured.

It seemed that Watson's temper was up and he made several threats to our captors that were more a source of amusement than fear. He made a strong case for our release, which unfortunately made him target for our captors ire.

As I had always seen Watson as a cripple, his safety and health had always been a serious consideration of mine. This consideration had been passed on to the members of Scotland Yard; there was something of a conspiracy of safety going on behind Watson's back whenever the Yard worked with him in the field. I had naturally been very careful not to let him know that I felt he needed my protection, as his pride was considerable when it came to matters involving his health, but I admit to a few moments of sheer panic as he dropped his coat – with its pockets of tools – over my shoulders before being led away.

We lost sight of him for a moment. The constable beside me was swearing steadily and wrenching against the ropes.

"They'll kill him!" the man on the left muttered, horror in his tone. I was too busy trying to get to the tools Watson had left me in his pockets to pay much attention… until he stepped down into the pen. It was constructed as a solid wooden circle with a rail running along the top, stained and battered by the many fighters that had performed within it.

Surrounded by men howling for his blood, Watson seemed dazed, disconnected from his surroundings. I had heard of several once whole veterans who froze when forced to face a return to the conditions that had maimed them – I feared that this was what I was seeing in Watson's face now. He had learned something of the rules of a London brawl, but not enough to fare well against four men in an illegal fight ring. He was dressed, as always, as a gentleman and his injuries would be painfully apparent to the men around him.

Several of the very largest 'volunteered' to fight him and four were chosen. The men beside me struggled all the harder, their movements attracting Watson's attention. His eyes drifted up to look at our level, for a long moment they met mine.

The breath froze in my lungs. My dear friend had not frozen with fear, was not dazed by terrible memories. He was calm, collected. There was something in that gaze that was so alien to his normal warm nature that it was as if someone had transplanted another man into his body.

Then the first man reached for him and Watson… exploded. It was impossible to track every movement in that pen, but his four opponents went down in a flurry of blows. Their own blows connected solidly but it was as if Watson could not feel it. More men poured into the pen to replace the fallen – I clearly saw my dear friend kicked across the pen, landing hard against the railing. His hands gripped, pulled and then came away with a weapon. More men fell.

Finally they stopped. My gentle Watson stood amidst a pile of bodies, his clothes torn and bloodied, gasping for breath and slightly unsteady on his already injured leg. I could hear his blood splattering to the ground, a soft drip that carried clearly to my straining ears.

As if surfacing from a deep pool, my senses returned with a rush. In a flash I had my hand in Watson's pocket, his scalpel from its resting place and the ropes from my wrists. As I worked on the constables ropes my dearest friend swayed in silence, the men who had been howling for his blood silent and still. My three companions were just as shocked, but I had no time to waste upon them.

The warehouse door slammed open and a tide of blue surged through it. Constables moved quickly to subdue them as I shrugged Watson's coat onto my shoulders and headed for the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom he was there, his bloodied hands trembling upon my forearms as my hands curled supportively, cautiously below his elbows.

"By God, Watson, remind me never to anger you past the point of control! Are you hurt badly old chap?"

There was no reply. The man looking out of Watson's arms was still not the man I shared rooms with, but as I watched the stranger within them was replaced by a more familiar persona – that of the doctors clinical gaze.

"Watson, answer me!" I insisted only to be seated firmly on the stairs, checked for injury and then abandoned. I surged to my feet, but he was gone in an instant, swallowed by the surging blue wool. For several minutes I was able to track his progress as he went from one injured man to another – checking on the few constables who had come off the worst in their own portion of the brawl before turning to give the needed medical attention to those he had fought in the pen, though the police surgeon that Lestrade had brought with him was already triaging those that had fallen in battle against my dear friend.

That night was something of a revelation to me. I had not understood that Watson had not known how to fight, or even that he was struggling to relearn how to fight after suffering crippling injuries. Watson had been learning to fight as a civilian, using rules that were far more civilised than those that he was used to. Watson had learned to fight where rules did not exist – where every move may be your last. Though he had put every one of his adversaries down hard his compassion and respect for life had not put them down fatally. That compassion had cost him – the worst hits had landed when he'd pulled his punches from lethal to merely debilitating.

It took me a full ten minutes to catch up with Watson.

I pulled his coat off and wrapped it around his shoulders; using the grip to pull him up from the man whose arm he had just finished splinting. His leg partially gave way and I supported him, the almost full body contact bringing his eyes to my face. He took a deep breath and then smiled, the Watson I had befriended looking back at me from the familiar dear face.

Then his eyes rolled up in his head and only my grip prevented him from dashing his brains out on the corner of the pen he had fought in.

He was insensible for two days – more than long enough for me to re-evaluate the man I had once considered crippled.

I never would again.

0o0o0o0

AN – GAH!!! Writers block!! This was in the way of writing; let's only hope that things are less blocked now!

This was based on a 'what if' based on one of the fight scenes from the new Holmes movie – which is not really related to cannon in any way shape or form unless you squint really hard… but it was funny!

BTW – has anyone seen the new SH movie? If you go with the idea that it's a LOOSELY based comedic take of the original characters then it's quite amusing!


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